I am a man who watches Girls. I do not think it makes me less of a man. Well, maybe it does. But if it does, I still feel I have enough masculine currency (read: back hair) at any given time to swing the pendulum back in my favor.

I'm a man, and I sound my barbaric yawp as only a real man can do. Unless, of course, it's 9 p.m. on Sunday night, at which time I cease all yawping and turn on Girls so I can say things like, "Jessa is being such a Samantha right now!" and my wife can begin to look at me with the cold, desexualized stare of a woman who was just told by Maury Povich that she married the brother she never knew she had.

But I even I know I went too far last night, because I watched Girls on Super Bowl Sunday. Instead of dissecting Colin Kaepernick's offense, I was dissecting Shoshanna Shapiro's boy drama (she and Ray are still pretty amaze, you guys).

My phone is going to ring tonight, and it's going to be my father, and he's going to say, "I'm not mad at you; I'm just disappointed." And I'll weep silently and ask him if he thinks Marnie will ever find sustainable happiness, and he'll whisper to the heavens, "I… have… no… son."

Hannah and Elijah had a pretty vicious breakup, and as she refused to return his belongings, some stirring revelations came to light. First of all, Hannah has a pretty dude-ish approach to sitting on furniture sans underwear. If a chair belongs to a guy, that chair is eventually going to feel the repulsive, bare-assed closeness of ownership. Welcome to my home, friends! Sit anywhere you like; lord knows I do. (By the way, if you're reading this and you think you may have at some point purchased a couch from me on Craigslist… no refunds.)

Elijah thinks he's owed some reimbursement for paying for all of Hannah's junior year burritos. This is true. My college girlfriend owes me $343.32 for getting real fancy at Chipotle, and it occurs to me now that the constant chili-corn salsa add-on was a zesty, bold-flavored red flag.

Jessa's mean and weird and irredeemable. Is that bad to say? I'm saying it. I hate her. If you make master creep Thomas-John (the genius Chris O'Dowd) sympathetic, you're a nightmare. When he broke out the gem, "You're just some f***** dumb hipster that's munchin' my hay," I actually cheered! I'm sure someone out there has a more nuanced read on this situation, but between her heroin talk in front of his parents at dinner and the crimped hair, I just can't get behind her (and those offenses are running neck and neck).

Shoshanna, on the other hand, is adorable. The butt plug confusion, the realization that Ray lives with her, the sweet little Bedford Avenue, "I'm falling in love with you" moment? Give us more of this, Girls. But, Shosh, seriously—don't sit on those subway benches or you'll be cohabitating with Ray—and a bunch of bedbugs. So gross. And if my previous butt-on-upholstery admission doesn't make me the foremost expert on disgusting sitting practices, then there are no such credentials.

Fittingly, this episode ends with Hannah and Jessa sharing a tub and snot-rocketing on each other and doing God knows what else under the surface of that cesspool. I made the point after the season two premiere a few weeks ago that the deepest convos happen when the fewest clothes are on, but this exchange is about as deep as the tub. They're not talking about much other than the buoyancy of mucus (!), so maybe I was wrong.

All I know is that, somewhere in New Orleans, there are a bunch of sweaty, bloody football players hitting the showers after an epic showdown, and on HBO there are a couple of equally dirty gals doing essentially the same, so maybe we're not so different. And if they gave out MVP awards for half-hour premium cable shows, Hannah Horvath would be going to Disney World!